Based on the Episode Draw the Line, and a continuation of Jailbird Tom
September 1989
Tom's POV
I was sitting on the lower bunk bed of my jail cell reading a magazine when I heard the clanking of the sliding metal door to enter the cell block. I was still thinking about Mickey's visit earlier in the day, and wondered what she wanted to tell me. She told me that Booker was going to be the deliverer of the news, which I was not looking forward to.
"Hanson," I heard. I let my eyes leave the glossy page and I looked toward the cell door. There stood a few of the prison guards and he continued, "someone's here for you."
The guard stepped out of the way, and Booker took his place.
I set my magazine down and I slowly got up to my feet. I flexed my nostrils as I approached the door and it slowly slid open. My eyes never left Booker, and as soon as I was physically able, I did exactly what I promised Mickey I would do the next time I saw him.
I punched him in his ugly, smug face.
I was so quick, no one saw it coming. My fist made contact with his nose with a loud thud and he went down like a ton of bricks. Two of the guards rushed to my arms and pinned them to my sides so I couldn't move. I didn't need to, I was satisfied.
The other guard helped Booker to his feet, and he brought his hand up to his bleeding nose and glared at me. They quickly handcuffed my wrists behind my back, and I didn't fight them on it. I refused to say anything to Booker, and we were both escorted to the wardens office.
They put me in the chair across the desk from the warden while Booker was leaning up against the wall with a bloody rag to his nose. My hand was beginning to throb, but I didn't say anything about it.
"Prisoner Hanson, the state has granted wardens the authority to furlough prisoners in special circumstances. I am releasing you to the custody of Officer Booker for a period of 24 hours so that you may attend a funeral," the warden said to me.
I wasn't expecting that at all. My eyebrows furrowed together and my eyes shot directly up to Booker, and he gulped in response.
There was only one person I could think of who this could be about, and that was Ioki. He got shot, and Mickey told me that it was still touch and go at the hospital. I felt a soft tremble in my chest and I licked my lips to try to get rid of my severe dry mouth. This news was devastating, but I was trying to stay strong. I asked, "Harry?"
Booker's voice was soft and compassionate. "Yeah, he, uh—he listed you as next of kin."
I stared off into nothingness as I tried to wrap my mind around that he was really gone. A young, dedicated cop, a member of my team, was dead. A good friend. I sighed and looked down at my lap.
The warden spoke, but I wasn't listening. My mind was still too focused on Ioki. But before I knew it, the handcuffs were taken off my wrists and I walked out of the building with Booker.
They didn't let me change my clothes, so I was still clad in my prison denim blues. I slowly slumped down the stairs of the prison, where Booker's car was waiting right in front.
I slipped into the passengers seat but I was too upset to talk. Booker didn't turn the radio on so we drove in silence. I still couldn't believe it. Ioki's dead.
Booker drove us to Doug's apartment, apartment 326. He said that we were going to have to work together to figure out what really happened the night Buddy got shot and how to prove it. We reached his door and Booker knocked on it and put his hands in his jean pockets.
Doug's voice on the other side asked, "who is it?"
"It's Booker," Booker said.
"I'm watching the game," Doug stated flatly.
"Penhall," Booker groaned.
"I'm not home," Penhall replied firmly. With no emotion, he said, "oh, what a catch."
He's not watching any game.
"Doug, let us in," I finally said.
"Who's that with you?" Doug asked after a beat.
"Three guesses," Booker said.
Doug finally opened the door and stared at us for a second. Booker pushed himself past him and he said, "maybe you'll talk to me now."
I walked past Doug and he shut the door behind me. Booker took the red chair while I sat on the couch with Doug right next to me.
Everyone was silent for a moment, I naturally assumed because we were mourning our dead friend and teammate. I put my elbows on my knees and I sighed. I kept my voice level and calm and I said sincerely, "Doug, I'm sorry about Harry."
Doug looked at me and said, "it's okay. He'll snap out of it."
I stared off as I wrapped my mind around the fact that I will probably have to be the one to deliver this devastating news. My eyebrows twitched and I swung my head to Booker. "He doesn't know?"
Booker said gently, "I meant to tell you."
"Tell me what?" Doug asked with big puppy-dog eyes. I really didn't want to be the one to tell him. Doug is my best friend, I couldn't bare to see him upset. How is it that I knew before he did?
"Not you," Booker said.
I didn't pay him any mind. I turned to Doug and put my hand on his shoulder compassionately. I tried to think of the best way to say this in a sensitive manner, but I figured the best way was to tell him fast like ripping off a bandaid. In a calm voice I disclosed, "Doug, Harry's dead."
"No." Doug's eyes grew big at the news and I could see his heart sink to his stomach. I hated to be the one to tell him, but he deserved to know. I nodded softly, trying to let him know that it was going to be okay.
"No," Booker said in a surprisingly chipper tone.
I turned my head towards him and I squinted at him. "What do you mean no?"
"He's still in the hospital," Booker said.
"Ah!" Doug shouted and leaned back into the couch. "You scared the hell out of me, man!"
A sudden wave of relief rushed over me and my heart skipped a beat, and my hands got clammy. The wave went all the way down my arms and legs and I could jump to the moon with all the energy that got released from that news. But, I was pissed that he led me to sincerely believe that one of my closest friends was dead. I shouted at him, "then what am I doing here?!"
"I needed to talk to Penhall!" Booker excused while extending his arm out in Doug's direction.
"So you told him Ioki was dead?!" Doug shouted at Booker.
"What am I—his interpreter?!" I yelled at the same time.
"Better than that, I proved it to the warden," Booker said like that was going to help his case.
"Well, what for? What for?" I asked with my voice high and quivering. Who in their right mind would tell another human being at their friend was dead when they are not?!
Doug's voice overlapped with mine, "what would you wanna do a crazy thing like that for?"
"To get him out of jail!" Booker stated while gesturing toward me.
"What for? What for?!" I shouted again with pain in my voice, darting my head to Doug and back to Booker. Why would he do something like this?
"So he'd listen to me," Booker said.
Doug sighed and leaned down to pinch the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He too was trying to comprehend Booker's madness. And people wonder why I don't like the guy. He does weird things like this.
I put my hands on Doug's shoulder and shook him slightly as I said, "listen to him. I'm gonna go get a beer."
I stood up and walked to Doug's kitchen while he leaned toward Booker and I heard him say, "I do not believe that you let him think that Ioki was dead—"
"Listen, listen," Booker said to try to quiet him down.
"—the whole car ride over here," Doug finished.
I opened his fridge and perused for a beer. I found one on the top shelf so I grabbed it and closed the fridge door. I was going to need a boat load of these after today.
"You have no regard for anybody but yourself," Doug snapped at him.
"Yeah, I do. I did what I had to do." Booker's voice rose, "you're just sitting here on your ass all day long—"
"—two years to his sentence!"
"—sorry for everybody and not doing anything about it!" Booker yelled and it shut them both up.
I had little idea what they were saying. Their yapping overlapped with each other and I could barely focus on the point either of them were making. I was going to drown my anger towards Booker in beer.
I peered at the bottle and looked up at the guys. I shook the bottle in my hand lightly as I asked, "is this a twist-off or do I need an opener?"
Doug ignored me to put his finger in Bookers face and told him angrily, "if he has to do one extra minute of time—"
"I made the move to get him out so we can work together—" Booker interrupted him.
"—because of this stupid stunt," Doug continued.
"—he deserves a chance to clear his own name!" Booker shouted.
I set the beer bottle on the counter, glancing around to try to find an opener. They weren't going to listen to me. I wasn't trying to pay attention to them because they kept yelling over each other.
Booker's voice was calm as he said, "Hanson didn't shoot Buddy."
That caught my attention.
"It was Frank Farrell," Booker disclosed.
Doug looked back at me, and I slid the beer over so I could put my elbows on the counter. I glanced at them interestedly, and I needed to know more about his theory.
There was a knock at the door, and all of us snapped our heads to it. My blood ran cold, so I stood up straight and was prepared to bolt and hide anywhere I could.
Doug looked back between the both of us and said quietly, "I wasn't expecting anyone."
"Come in!" Booker shouted. It seems like he does things without thinking or any regard for anyone but himself and my eyes grew wide at him.
"Dude! That could be anybody," Doug said in a strained voice.
All of our eyes snapped at the door as the doorknob jiggled. I held my breath as the door swung open, and Mickey came through the door. The tension I carried in my shoulders instantly disappeared when I saw her. She shimmied her black leather jacket off before she looked at any of us and shut the door behind her.
I began creeping out of the kitchen as I saw her eyes land on the guys in the living room. A polite smile perked her lips, and then her eyes gravitated towards me and her beautiful face lit up.
"Tom! Oh my god, Tom!" She shouted and dropped her coat to the floor. She ran around the couch while I completely stepped out of the kitchen and wrapped my arms around her in a hug. I felt her back crack under my Hulk-like strength, but she didn't seem to mind.
"God, I missed you," I said quietly so only she could hear it. I had to control myself around Booker and Doug, but even her intoxicating aroma made it nearly impossible to do so. It wasn't until I was locked in a cage like an animal did I realize I could miss her so much. I scrunched my face into her neck, falling for her heavenly blend of vanilla, orange blossoms, and a warm marshmallow scent. I let my eyes close and I let out my breath. I already felt better with her here. She was risking a lot just being here with me.
When we let go, she kept her hands on my shoulders and she looked up at me with joyous hazel eyes. She said, "I thought—"
"Booker got me out," I told her. I didn't mean to interrupt her, but it slipped out.
"How long do you have?" She asked.
"24-hours."
She turned to Booker and asked, "how?"
"Took your advice. Told them that he had a funeral to get to," Booker explained.
"Ioki's?" She asked and Booker nodded.
"This was your idea?!" Doug asked with a rough voice. We were both still traumatized.
"Well, when I visited Tom and the guards told me that the only way for him to get out was for a funeral, I told Booker. What's the big deal?"
Doug blabbed, "he made Tom think Ioki was dead the whole car ride over."
Her doe eyes grew wide and she nearly shouted at him, "you didn't think to tell him as soon as he got in the car?!"
"I forgot! Geez. By the way, I think a simple thank-you would suffice," Booker said and leaned back in the chair.
"How did you know we were here?" I asked her.
"I called her and told her to meet us here," Booker revealed.
"Booker thinks Frank Farrell killed Buddy," Doug said.
"I know," Mickey said.
"How?" He asked.
"I talked to Booker about it earlier."
"I need a beer," Doug groaned. "All my beers require an opener and I don't got one."
That would have been good to know.
"Let's get out of here," Booker suggested.
"Should Tom go out in public?" Mickey asked.
"We can give him a hat and some sunglasses and people will be none-the-wiser," Doug said.
Mickey left me to grab her jacket that fell to the floor while Doug grabbed me a jacket from his closet and passed me one of his hats and a dark pair of sunglasses.
We drove to the bar and sat at the booth furthest from anyone else. We didn't want anyone to overhear our pleasant conversation about murder.
Booker slid into the booth, and I sat across from him. Doug took the spot next to me, so Mickey had to sit beside Booker. Doug ordered a pitcher of beer for everyone and some glasses, an order which was promptly completed by the waiter.
Booker was leaning against the crevasse of the booth, the corner between the wall and the seat. He had his arm extended over the top of the seat, going around Mickey's head. He told us about how he's been working with Frank Farrell and how he has been saying some questionable things that led Booker to believe that he was behind Buddy's death. We all listened intently on Booker's theory, and it seemed totally plausible.
"The way Hanson was running, he couldn't have seen Farrell in the woods," Booker stated at the end of his little speech.
"Well, the choreography fits, if Farrell got out of the car," Doug pointed out as he poured everyone a glass of beer from the pitcher.
"He did," I said. I did not remember that night with any fondness, but I forced myself to go back to it every chance I got to try to think of what could have possibly happened to get me into this horrible mess. "That's not what he said on the witness stand."
"Farrell never waited alone in a parked car. It was more than an old habit. It was something basic to his nature," Booker said.
"How do you know?" Mickey asked.
"He's told me multiple times to never wait alone in a parked car. You look like a sitting duck. There's no way he would have gone against that this night," he said.
"So you got this gut feeling because he slipped up while testifying?" Doug asked.
"It wasn't a slip-up. Farrell told a conscious lie at Hanson's trial." He watched Doug's face scrunch and he said, "hey. I didn't mean anything by that, all right?"
"Okay, okay. So, let's say Booker's right. Why would he kill his partner?"
"Bud Tower's running guns to gangs, you found that out," Booker said.
"Do you think that Farrell was in on it?" Mickey asked.
"Yeah, and he could have killed Buddy to get him out of the way," Doug thought out loud.
"Yeah, or to shut him up," Booker said, "Farrell's going to work for Crane. Maybe he wanted a clean break, clean past."
"So he makes him a silent partner," Doug said. His eyes looked distant, like he was trying to connect the dots in his mind.
"Wait, wait, wait. Farrell's working for Crane?" I asked.
"Head of security," Booker disclosed while rubbing his chin.
"If Farrell was selling guns with Buddy, then he kills him... he quits his job, then works for Crane..." Mickey stated, helping to piece it all together.
"Anything there?" I asked.
Doug answered, "70 grand a year. Plus, he gets out of a war zone."
"Yeah, but he wanted that war. He fueled both sides," I pointed out. "Why's he so eager to get out now?"
"Farrell said something like, it wouldn't be a jungle there for long," Booker stated.
Mickey's face scrunched slightly and she said, "that doesn't sound very promising."
I scratched the back of my neck and rested my jaw against my hand. I sighed, "Crane. I saw him on TV. What the hell was it?"
"I've been trying to record the games and I probably got a clip of Crane," Doug said and downed the rest of his beer. "We can run back to my place and check it out."
"Then let's go," Booker said and reached into his pocket. He pulled out his wallet and slapped a few bills on the table while the rest of us were getting out of our seats.
We quickly drove back to Doug's apartment and we all went straight to his television set. Doug began messing around with his DVR and the tapes.
Booker said, "it was the Outlaw Viking game."
We had a bowl of potato chips on the coffee table, so I grabbed a handful and began plopping them in my mouth one at a time. I put one up to Mickey's face, and she took it gratefully.
Doug turned on the TV set and put one of his tapes in. The screen popped up with a giant yellow monster truck rumbling through dirt.
"Big foot," Doug said jokingly.
"No, man. That's Stumper," Booker said.
"They have names?" Mickey asked, flexing her lip up at the screen.
"Yeah. There's Black Stallion, Grave Digger, Bear Foot..." Doug listed off.
"Predator," Booker said with a quick snap of his fingers.
"Predator," Doug repeated while trying to think of more.
I grabbed another tape on top of the TV set and handed it to Doug. "Try this one."
When Doug exchanged the tapes, and music started playing as a line-up of women body builders in tight black bikini's came onto the screen.
My chewing immediately stopped and my hands froze as I was previously trying to wipe the crumbs off of them. My eyes shot to Doug, as did Booker's and Mickey's. Doug looked at all of us and stammered, "it's sort of a thing..." then he mumbled something awkwardly and immediately ejected it.
"What the hell was that?" Mickey asked.
"Well... if you take it out of context..." Doug tried to explain.
"There is no right context," Mickey stated.
I snatched the tape before he could hide it and handed it to Booker. "Save that."
"Yep," Booker said and put it in the front of his jeans and put his shirt over it to hide it.
Doug put in another tape, but this time we were all entranced by the short clip of a cartoon moose. Four decorated police officers were too invested in it for a little too long.
"What's that?" Mickey asked.
"The Get Along Gang," I answered.
"Ah," she said. I stifled my chuckle, because I don't think she has ever seen it. We usually stick to classic Looney Tunes.
Doug looked slightly embarrassed as he hit the eject button again, and we tried one of his last taped recordings. Thankfully, this time a clip from the game showed before switching to a news anchor and Crane.
"This is it," Booker obnoxiously pointed at the screen. Thank you, Captain Obvious.
We all gravitated to the couch as Crane on the recording said, "well, we have been very straightforward with the city. But the Outlaws have very high standards. And so we're gonna push, and we're gonna push, and we're gonna push again until the fans get what they deserve."
The announcer on the TV asked, "and what specifically is it that they deserve?"
"Well, you know, we certainly haven't pinpointed an area yet. But the Crane organization would like to create a 70,000-seat facility that would, you know, also double as a downtown convention center for the business district."
I grabbed the remote and paused the recording. I turned to Doug and asked, "you got that list? The one I took from Bud Tower's house?"
"Yeah. Yeah. It's in that, uh, desk-thing." He waved his hand in the direction of his desk-thing. As I stood up and started walking over there, he said, "it's in the bottom, on the left."
I was going through his papers when the television started playing again. I found the list and I looked at it and found a black marker on the desk. I grabbed a map and drew a perimeter around an area where I believed this arena was going to go.
I walked back over to the couch and snatched the remote from Booker's hands and paused it again. I tossed the remote to the coffee table and showed them the paper. I said, "these are addresses in the area where Farrell and his partner were selling guns."
My next paper was a map with my black square drawn on it. I pointed it out and said, "you could put a stadium here that would hold about 70,000 people."
Booker rubbed his palms on the knees of his jeans and he stood up. He said, "I think you're right. Hanson, the best way to show your innocence is by getting Farrell's gun back."
"Do we have to go to the Cage?" Doug asked.
"We'd have to."
"They closed hours ago," Mickey pointed out with a yawn. Watching her yawn, made me yawn.
Booker checked his watch and said, "yeah, shoot. We will have to go first thing in the morning."
"Should we call it a night?" Doug asked.
I nodded softly, "yeah."
Doug stood up, which prompted Mickey to stand up as well. We all slowly started to walk to the door, and I swiped her coat off the couch on my way.
Booker opened the door and said good night and offered to pick everyone up in the morning, then he left. Doug offered to make a little bed for me on his couch, and went off, leaving me and Mickey at the door.
"You don't have to stick around, you know," I told her.
"No, I'm going to help you whether you like it or not," she said as I helped her put her jacket on.
"I just don't want you—any of you—to get in trouble with Fuller. This is my issue, I don't want you guys to get tangled in my web."
"This may come to a surprise, Officer Hanson, but I don't like being told what to do. Fuller can suck it up. He's got enough to worry about right now with Ioki, he won't even know I'm gone. Besides, I have no open cases right now so you have all my attention." She beamed up at me.
I smiled at her softly and gave in. I gently tucked her hair behind her ear and said, "okay, fine."
"You sure you don't want a ride home? Or come to my place?" Her hand grabbed mine and we locked our fingers together gently.
"I think it's better if I don't travel so much. But I'll see you in the morning, okay?" I brought the back of her hand up to my lips, but I kept my eyes locked to hers. When we brought our hands down, we kept holding on to each other.
"Okay. Good night."
"Night," I said and I didn't even check if anyone was watching before I gave her a quick kiss. When I kiss her, I know I'm in love. Her kiss, to me, is worth a fortune.
Mickey has given me the strength to carry on. My world is so much brighter when she smiles, and when she touches my hand I feel like a king. Whenever it feels like everything I do is wrong and no one else can understand me, she has always been there for everything I do. I guess that's the beautiful wonder of Mickey.
Her hand slipped from mine as I watched her walk out the door and she closed the door behind her. I wished I could walk her to her car or something, but that would be dangerous for the both of us. It was best that I left her alone.
Doug came back with a pillow and a blanket and I crashed on the couch.
The next morning, Booker picked us all up relatively early in the morning. Mickey was already in the car, and I watched her crawl to the back seat from the front. I reached the door and crawled beside her, and Doug took the passengers seat. I slipped my sunglasses back on, to further my disguise while being out in public.
"You sure about this now?" I asked.
"I was standing next to him when he turned in his gun," Booker said.
"You know, it makes sense for Farrell. You in jail, no one would ever suspect his gun to be the murder weapon," Doug said. He smacked his tongue while he ate his hot dog, which he insisted on making before we left. "He turns it in. It gets reissued to some rookie. It just gets lost in the system."
"About time we beat the system," I said.
Booker drove us to the Cage and we parked across the street from the building. Booker took a look at his watch and he said, "Cage opens in 10 more minutes. We have to have him back by 5:00. That gives us eight hours."
"What time is it now?" Mickey asked.
"Ten to nine," Booker answered.
"Man, I want nothing more than for you to be right about this thing," Doug said calmly. "But I just cannot believe that any human being, whether they had all the money in the world or not one thin dime, could perpetuate a gang war, let kids die, just so that their organization could put up a building."
"I don't know, man. I see life like a street. You're walking down it. And up ahead of you is a store where you're gonna buy something. But between you and that purchase are all the rules coming up to you like some beggar, you know, hitting you up for all your money," Booker said.
I opened my mouth and pinched the corner of my sunglasses to slide them down my nose and I stared at Booker with my mouth gaping. Where was he going with this? Even Mickey looked confused.
"You feel bad for dodging them. But he stands between you and what you want. So you look away when he passes, or you cross the street," Booker finished.
I stretched my hand over my sunglasses and pushed them back up. Booker opened the car door and got out.
"Wow," I said and pushed my lips together as Doug turned to face us. Booker closed the door as I readjusted my hat by it's bill and said, "well, Socrates can rest easy."
I cleared my throat dramatically and Doug rested back in his seat and asked, "what did the beggar represent again?"
"Obstacles?" Mickey guessed. We all watched Booker scurry up the steps of the building. "That get in the way of what he really wants?"
"What does he really want?" I asked.
"Beats me," she said with a little shrug. If anyone knew, it would be her. Booker is not a very open person with me—obviously—but he seems to enjoy working with Mickey. I thought maybe he has said something about it to her.
"He certainly likes to work alone," Doug said, "maybe something to do with that?"
"He's stuck with us," Mickey chuckled. "You know what I don't think he likes? Order. He'd rather go off and do his own thing rather than follow rules and get told what to do."
I nodded slightly. "That's where he and I disagree. Rules are there for a reason—reasons he should be well aware of."
"He's not very... coachable," Doug added.
I heard Mickey let out a soft sigh and she said, "you guys give him such a hard time. I don't think he's all that bad."
Doug and I stayed silent for a moment, because she had a point, I guess. We can be a little cynical towards Booker, but I felt like I had a decent reason. The man introduced himself by electrocuting me for fun. I will never let that grudge go.
"Mick, how'd it go at that summer school mission you had last month?" Doug asked to change the subject.
Last month, Mickey was assigned to teach at risk students the dangers of drugs and alcohol during a summer school program, while I sat in as a McQuaid to influence the students to listen to her. She did a great job, but I couldn't wait for it to be over because I was forced to go to all of my classes throughout the entire summer. It's better than working at headquarters though.
"Good. Fuller says that drop out rates at the school went down 40% while I was there, and drug use went down 85%. It's been pretty consistent in this fall semester too. I'd say it was successful," she said proudly.
"Good, good, good, good, good," Doug said quickly while clicking his tongue.
"There he is," Mickey said while pointing out the window. I looked out the window myself and noticed that Booker was carrying a thick stack of papers in his arms, and used his chin to hold them in place.
Mickey jumped out of the car right away and grabbed a chunk of the loose papers from Booker. We followed her and she asked, "what are all of these? Where's the gun?"
"It's been reissued," Booker revealed while I took some of the papers off of Mickey's hands.
"To who?" Doug asked and grabbed some more of the papers from Booker.
"The answer is in these papers. Their computers are down so they could only give me the weapon transactions from this year on hard copy."
"That's just peachy," I grumbled and sneered down at the papers. Just our luck.
This was going to be torturous.
We went into an empty conference room with our stacks and we carefully looked through them. We were all silent, the only noise was of the constant rustling of the papers. We were trying to find where Frank's gun went.
"Got it," I said about a half hour after we began searching. It had his name, and the serial number of the gun. Everyone paused to listen to my update. "Frank Farrell. Doesn't say where the gun went though."
"Great," Booker grunted and reached over the table and took my paper away from me. "Now I got the serial number. All I have to do is match it up with one of these numbers from the other sheets and find out who has it."
Booker grabbed a sheet and handed it to me, "here—one for you, one for you, and one for you." He handed us all sheets to try to locate Farrell's serial number and see who possessed it now.
"Shouldn't take too long," Mickey mumbled. I couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not.
"Oh, great," Doug complained. "Even the police force is so buried in bureaucratic BS, I can't even cross-reference the information on these sheets."
"Doug," I stopped him.
"There's no—what?"
"I'm on a bit of a schedule," I stated and flipped to the next sheet.
"What's the, uh, serial number?" Doug asked.
"It's 9923532," Booker read off.
"How am I supposed to remember that?" Doug asked after a beat.
"9923532. 9923532," I mumbled to myself so I wouldn't forget.
I peered up for a moment to see Mickey mouthing the numbers to herself as her focused eyes intently scanned the paper in her hands. I was almost distracted by the look of determination that grazed her face, but I got back to my paper. The sooner we find this number, the sooner my name will be cleared, and the sooner I can be at home and be with her again without cell bars between us.
"992–uh, 99, 99, Wayne Gretzky, 23, Michael Jordan, Gretzky, Jordan. What—who's a famous 5?" Doug asked.
"Johnny Bench," I said without looking up at him. The faster he can figure this out, the sooner we can get this done.
"Bench, 32. Well, there's a lot of famous 32's."
"Who cares?" Mickey asked with annoyance lingering in her words.
"Why don't you just write it down?" I finally looked up at him in annoyance.
"No, I got it—Magic Johnson. So Gretzky, Jordan, Bench, Johnson."
I angrily flipped another page as Doug kept listing the names off. You'd think he would have remembered the numbers by now from how often he was repeating them. Every time he said Johnson, we all flipped our papers at the same time.
A couple of hours later and we were still going at it. My eyes were tired, and my fingers were cramping. I was starting to slow down, and my enthusiasm was spiraling. I glanced up at my friends and knew that I didn't deserve them. They were sacrificing their day, and their jobs just for me. I almost wanted to give up, just so they didn't have to suffer from my burden that wasn't theirs to bare.
"Found it," Mickey called out. We all gladly stopped and looked at her as she said, "the gun was reissued to a cadet at the Academy. Cadet Mortelarro."
"Cadet Mortelarro," I muttered to myself as we all began desperately gathering all our messy papers up again in neat piles.
Once we completely cleaned up, we raced back to Booker's car and put our papers in the trunk. He can deal with them later.
I climbed into the back after Mickey, and Doug took the front again.
"The fastest way up there's up the 91," Doug said as Booker was driving us through town. We had to get to the Academy as soon as possible, so my name could be cleared. It was the first time all day I've had a lick of hope.
A man on the police scanner said, "Baker 57, come in. Baker 57, come in."
Then, Fuller's voice came on the radio, "can't dodge this call, Booker."
My blood ran cold as I exchanged looks with Mickey. I slid my sunglasses down my nose as Booker grabbed the radio's microphone and said, "this is Baker 57. Hey, Captain."
"Report to Jump Street immediately," Fuller said firmly. He did not sound happy.
Booker waited a moment before saying, "uh, I can be there around 6:00."
"I'm sure you can be there in 10 minutes. And that's an order, Officer."
Booker grunted as he put the microphone of his radio back and then he checked his watch. When he put his hand back on the steering wheel he said to us, "look, we'll cruise the chapel, deal with Fuller, and be out in five minutes."
"Think there will be enough time?" Mickey asked worriedly. I looked over at her and grabbed a hold of her hand and squeezed it gently. I saw her face pink up a bit, and I rubbed my thumb lightly against the back of her cold hand to reassure her that everything was going to be fine.
"Should be," Booker said.
Booker sped into the chapel's back parking lot and yanked the keys out of the ignition. He hopped out and flipped his seat forward so Mickey could climb out too. Doug went with them, and they huddled into the chapel.
I stayed in the car, feeling protected under my security blanket of the brown jacket and dark sunglasses. I readjusted the black cap on my head, and patiently waited for them to come back.
I looked back and I noticed Sal skipping down the steps with a garbage bag in his hands. I moved to the other side of the car and poked my head out of the open window, hoping to maybe say something to him. I missed him. As I was secretly watching him, I noticed that he tried to toss the bag into the nearby dumpster, but he missed terribly.
Disappointed lingered on my face. He tried again, much closer, and "dunked" it. He punched his arms up victoriously and trotted back to the chapel. Not the most pathetic thing I've seen him do, but one of the top five. I moved back into my seat and patiently waited for my partners to come back.
They all finally came back and jumped back into the car. They told me about how Fuller found out that Booker was snooping around for Farrell's gun, and tried to grill him into revealing why. Booker refused to tell him, which got him into some hot water. Luckily, Mickey and Doug said that Fuller barely acknowledged them, so it was easy for them to sneak back out.
Booker drove us straight to the Academy, but I didn't stick around in the car this time. I walked with them through the familiar building, and we stopped at the Administrations office.
"Damn, it's Weingate," Doug groaned as we saw the man sitting beside the desk through the window. "He'll remember us."
"I'll wait here," I offered.
"Good idea," Doug said.
"Yeah."
"I'll go in," Mickey offered.
"Good idea," Doug repeated.
"Yeah," Mickey also repeated.
Booker looked off in the distance and didn't move. Doug punched Booker's shoulder as he opened the door and said, "come on."
"Don't rabbit on me, boy. You'll spend the night in a box," Booker threatened me.
"Come on," Doug said and grabbed Booker's arm and dragged him in there with Mickey right on their heels.
I walked up and down the hallway as I waited. I admired their impressive trophy collection, and inspected the framed photos they have hanging on the walls. I noticed the photo they hung of the cadets from my class, and I stopped. I took my sunglasses off and saw myself in the back of the class photo. A dumb, fresh-faced kid, fresh from the Academy. What I wouldn't give to have a conversation with him. There was so much I wished I could tell him, stuff to warn him about and stuff he had to look forward to in his life. The people he should let into his life sooner rather than later. Help him be happier sooner. He had no idea what he was getting himself into. How did I go from being a goody-goody two shoes to an arrested cop running around, trying to get out of a murder charge?
I went a little further down the hallway and started seeing the young Cadets from 1985. My eyes grazed the photos until I found Mickey. Even through the grainy photo, I could still see her hopeful eyes and bright smile. I smiled back at her, curious if we would have been friends if we met at the Academy. I was a little more uptight back then. Her usual wild and wavy hair was resting cooperatively on her shoulders, and she held her police cap by her side. This was probably the last time she touched it, I think it's been collecting dust in her closet ever since.
The door opened which snapped me out of my thoughts. I headed back over to the trio and they informed me that Cadet Mortelarro had been dismissed for the day, they can't give out his personal information, and even though it's part of a homicide investigation, we would need to fill out a department form 7-12A and have it signed by our superior officer. That wasn't going to happen, so we needed to figure something else out.
Doug was standing by the pay phone while going through a phone book and he sighed, "you'd think there'd be one Mortelarro in the whole book." He shoved the book back angrily and started walking to us as he said, "never mind. I'm sure we can weasel an address out of this place."
"Well, this office closes in about an hour," Booker said as he was leaning up against the wall. "Just jimmy a couple locks."
I finally sighed and looked at them all. We had dug ourselves too deep in this hole. Fuller was catching on to us, and the risk of them losing their jobs increased with every passing minute they were here with me. Even though I appreciated everything they did for me, it was time to stop. I said, "take me back."
"It's just be a couple hours over the deadline," Doug shrugged like it wasn't a big deal.
"I can BS a warden, no problem," Booker reassured.
"Yeah, I really don't think they'll care," Mickey nodded.
"No. It stops right here right now," I said firmly.
"What?" Doug asked.
"This, man. Look at us." I pointed to the photo of myself on the wall and said, "I feel so sorry for that stupid kid up there. He had no idea." I took a step to Doug and said, "Doug, what's happened to us? I ran. You lied. I'm here considering going over the wall."
"Things happened. We reacted," Doug said in a low voice.
"It was how we reacted," I said.
"We were fighting. We were trying to survive."
"Well, what good is survival if you don't like what you've become?" I asked.
"Okay. What went wrong?" Doug asked.
"I don't know," I said and looked down. "I can't answer that now."
"Well, how's going back gonna help you find the answer?" Booker asked.
"We've come this far. You really want us to stop now?" Mickey asked. She looked disappointed, which made me feel guilty.
I licked my lips as I looked at them and shook my head. "We are stopping now. I can't even begin to start looking until I draw the line—right here, right now." I slid my sunglasses back on and sighed.
"All right, fine," Booker said with a hint of aggression in his voice. "Let's just go."
Mickey and I locked eyes as Booker's shoes squeaked down the hallway. She looked worried, and I was hopeless. I sighed and we began to follow him all the way out to the car.
I took the front seat this time and Booker drove me back to the prison. My handcuffs were back on and stepped out of the car and looked up at the jail. I shut the door behind me, and took a deep breath. I really didn't want to go back into that hell-hole, but I had no choice.
As I started to walk up the steps, I heard a door close and Mickey's voice ringing, "hey, Tom!"
I turned back towards her carefully. If I fell, I wouldn't be able to catch myself. Her hair bounced off her back as she trotted up to me and said, "don't worry. You'll be out of there soon."
I smiled softly at her optimism. I admire that about her, because I'm a pessimist myself. I said, "I'm not so sure. Killing a cop is a pretty bad thing and they're certain that I did it."
"Which is why we won't rest until your name is cleared," she promised.
I know her well enough to know that there was no talking her out of it. The idea of being locked away for the rest of my life flashed in my brain, and the only way I'd be able to see her again would be through bulletproof glass. This seemed like a lost cause. I was going to be punished for something I didn't do, and I didn't need her or Doug to suffer because of it either.
I must have been silent for a little too long because she said, "I'll see you soon. Okay?"
"Okay," I said. She came forward and pulled me into a hug, and I could feel her trembling slightly into my chest. I couldn't wrap my arms around her since I was cuffed, but I savored it for as long as possible. I put my lips to her cheek, squeezing my eyes shut so I could remember this moment if I never get to have it again.
When we pulled away, she went back to the car while I slowly walked up the rest of the stairs. As soon as I entered the building, I was put back into my cell.
______________________________
I was laying on my stomach on my bed. I was hugging my limp pillow under my head and neck. My cell-mate was right above me on the top bunk, and clatters from the other inmates around the cell block was always there to constantly remind me that I was never alone.
My cell-mate broke the silence between us as he said, "we missed you last night. Weird, it was so quiet.
"Why don't they just come and do it?" I asked softly.
"Anticipation is half the fun. Kills the time," my cell-mate chuckled.
One of the other prisoners shouted out, "Hanson. Yo, Fitz. Step up to your door, man. I got something for you, a welcome back present."
Something smacked on the cement floor of our cell that someone threw through our cell bars. Their laughter commenced, and I looked over to see that it was a poor goldfish struggling to breathe. How did a poor little goldfish get into a situation like this? It was just flopping around on the ground, hopeless. That's exactly how I felt, like a fish out of water.
Mickey's POV
After we dropped Tom off at the prison, we all immediately agreed that we were not going to stop trying to prove Tom's innocence. Why he would want us to give him up was beyond me, and I refused to listen to him.
The next morning, I stood with Doug and Booker against Booker's car in front of the Academy. I had my badge folded out of my front pocket, and a fresh piece of bubblegum in my mouth. Suddenly, one of the cadets came up to us. He was in full uniform, with black sunglasses on. What a dork.
"I hear you three quimby's are asking about me," he said to us.
"You're Cadet Mortelarro?" Doug asked.
"Who wants to know?" He asked.
Doug took out his badge and introduced us. "Officer Penhall, Officer Gregg, and Officer Booker. We need to take your service revolver."
"Sure," he said and took his sunglasses off. "When you pry it from my cold, dead fingers."
"All we need to know is the serial number of it," I told him.
He looked at us with slight confusion and asked, "why?"
"It's a possible murder weapon. Imagine how it'll look. Cadet Mortelarro finds a murder weapon before he's even out of the Academy," Booker said.
Mortelarro's eyebrows perked up, very interested by the sound of that. If an officer painted that picture to me while I was in the Academy, I would have been over the moon. He pulled out his gun and glanced down at the serial number. "Call it."
"Gretzky, Jordan, Bench, Johnson," Doug stated as he pushed the gun to the side so it wasn't pointed at us. I already knew the serial numbers, but that made no sense to me.
"9923532," Booker said, glaring at Doug for a brief moment.
Mortelarro studied at his gun then looked back at us. He flipped the gun in his hands and shoved it back in its holster. He put his sunglasses back on as he said, "let's get the collar."
Was I that pathetically lame when I was in the Academy? I don't think so.
______________________________
Once we had the gun, we had it tested. Ballistics matched, and Booker was more than thrilled to make that bust.
Testing done to the gun took a while, so we didn't have a proper warrant for Frank Farrell's arrest until nightfall. I stood with Doug by Booker's car which we had parked just down the street from Farrell's house, where we patiently waited for Booker to come out with Farrell handcuffed in his grip.
Doug and I were just shooting the breeze, until we heard the sharp sound of wood breaking. We both looked towards the house and saw that Booker and Ferrell had gotten into a fight and busted through the front door.
"I'll go this way," Doug said and started sprinting.
I looked to see which way Frank was headed, and began running myself. Frank's dark suit blended into the night but luckily my eyes were well adjusted. I noticed that he turned the corner of the sidewalk, right into my line of fire.
I didn't stop. I used all the momentum I gathered from my run to launch myself forward and tackle him from the side like a football player. He collapsed to the ground, with my legs flying over my head and landing right on top of him. I got the wind knocked out of me, but I didn't let it phase me. I accidentally kneed him in the face as I readjusted myself so I could try to handcuff him, and he retaliated by throwing a punch at my cheek.
I grunted and fell back from the throbbing pain in my face. My eye immediately started to water, and I felt tremendous amounts of pressure begin to bubble to the surface. Farrell scrambled up to his feet while I hugged his leg like a child to keep him from running off again. He looked down and grunted at me, trying to shake me off. Luckily, Doug arrived to bring him back down to the ground. I got up on my feet as I heard Farrell throw Doug a nasty punch, and I quickly pulled my gun out and pointed it at him.
"On the ground, now," I ordered in a low voice. I flexed my face to help dim the pain I was experiencing from his strong punch.
Farrell got up to his feet and stared at me with daggers in his eyes. Doug was rolling back up to his feet, but froze when Farrell pulled out his new gun and pointed it at me.
"Now, who are they gonna trust? A cop? Or Crane's head of security?" He asked mockingly.
I kept my gun straight and steady as I heard him cock his. I gulped gently, but refused to show any of my fear on my face. Suddenly, a gunshot echoed through the air which almost made me jump. My heart was racing, but I felt no pain. I thought I was shot for a brief moment.
Frank froze, and his eyes grew wide with fear. I looked just behind him to see Booker standing there with his gun pointed straight at Frank and gun powder blowing out from the weapon. He took the shot, but not directed to him. It was meant to scare him.
Frank knew it was all over. He sighed and dropped the gun before he put his hands up to his head.
I finally took a breath and put my gun away as Doug marched over to Farrell and aggressively put his hands behind his back and made the arrest. We handcuffed his hands behind his back, and escorted him to the car.
______________________________
In the interrogation room, Frank was smoking a cigarette while me, Doug, and Booker all were across from him. Booker was sitting in a chair, while Doug was standing behind him with his hands on the table. I was on the other side, sitting on the table while icing my darkly bruised eye and cheek. Booker had taken off his leather jacket, and was just in his dark tank top. One time I wore a tank top to work and I got in trouble for not being 'appropriate enough'. How is this fair?
"Why'd you kill him, Frank?" Booker asked. "Was Tower gonna be your partner at Crane? Or did he even know about the deal?"
Frank wasn't talking. He blew cigarette smoke out of his nose, and Booker put his fingers to the bridge of his nose in frustration and rubbed, squeezing his eyes shut.
"We already know that you are behind everything. You framed Officer Thomas Hanson, and you tried to hide the evidence by reissuing the murder weapon to a cadet," I hissed, stating the facts.
"You're the one who put him away," Doug said, "not to mention that you assaulted a police officer."
Frank's response was another puff of his cigarette, then the door opened. In walked a man with a black briefcase, and a red power tie. He lawyered up.
He leaned down and whispered something to Frank, who nodded. Then he turned to us and said, "all right, Officers. Let's cut to the quick. I'm advising Mr. Farrell that it is in his best interest to exercise his right under the Fifth Amendment."
The Fifth Amendment basically gave him the right to not speak to us, in case he proved what we already knew. What a stupid law.
"His best interests or Crane's?" Doug asked.
"How about a deal. You tell us why, and I'll do everything in my power to get you a lesser sentence," I offered.
"We're finished answering your questions," his lawyer said.
Booker scoffed and shook his head. He bolted up from the chair and headed to the door, leaving me and Doug to play catch up.
When the door closed, Booker said, "I'll give all the evidence to the judge. Even without a confession, we should have enough to condemn Farrell and clear Hanburger's name."
"Hanburger?" I asked.
Booker chuckled to himself. "My lil nickname for him."
"Need some help with the judge?" I asked.
"Sure," Booker said.
"Need a third set of hands?" Doug asked.
"No, I think we're good. I'll call you and let you know when the trial is going to be," Booker said.
"Okay," Doug said and we went off in separate directions.
I walked with Booker down to his car and said, "I just want to thank you for helping get Tom out of this predicament. I know you guys aren't on the best of terms, but it means a lot that you'd do this for him."
Booker said, "no one deserves to rot in jail for something they didn't do. Hanburger is too good of a man to suffer that fate. Don't tell him I said that."
I smiled softly to myself. "I won't."
We quickly searched through the records in his trunk until we found the serial number again and who the gun was issued to. We already had the proof of ballistics that this was the gun that killed Buddy, and I drove with him to give the evidence to the judge. She gave it a glance over and ordered for the trial to be scheduled first thing in the morning.
______________________________
In the courtroom, I sat in one of the front pews with Doug, Booker, Judy, and Fuller as we waited for the judges decision. We were all dressed nicely for court, and my eyes lingered at Tom who was still in his prison denim.
"After careful study of the facts of the case and the compelling evidence presented against former Detective Farrell, I hereby grant petition to release Thomas Hanson from state prison," the judge said and banged her gavel.
I felt like a weight was lifted off my shoulders. I smiled in happy relief, and we all stood up together silently.
It was silent until Doug shouted, "yes!" while pumping his arms down triumphantly. He was drunk off the happiness of Tom's release as he turned to me and grabbed my face and kissed my cheek. Then he turned around and gave Booker the biggest hug.
Tom's POV
I stood in front of my cell door as the prison guards opened it to let me out. There was significant chatter amongst the prisoners, not very happy that I got to be released.
I looked at my cell-mate and told him firmly, "they never got me."
"Yeah. Remember that after your first nightmare," he said.
I clenched my jaw at his words. This truly was the birthplace of nightmares, and I couldn't wait to get out of there. I started walking out of my cell block and everyone was yelling at me.
"Fish going back to the lake."
"Where you going, man?"
"Don't you like us?"
"Sooey!" One snorted. "Sooey!"
"I'm out in three months, man. I'm gonna look you up!"
I'd rather he didn't.
"Y'all come back now, you hear?" Someone yelled as some papers from the level above crashed down in front of me. It didn't startle me, so I kept my face straight and eyes forward. I walked to the end where the door finally opened.
I was able to get changed back into my own clothes and the main door was opened for me, once again as a free man. I took a deep breath of the fresh air, happy to finally be out of there. I had my red tie hanging out of my pocket, and I trotted down the steps of the prison.
I smiled as I walked up to Doug and Mickey, both leaning up against my car waiting for me. Mickey's face broke out into a smile, and she smoothed out her shirt as she stood up straight.
Doug offered me his hand, but when I went to shake it he brought it up to his head and slid it through his hair. Then, he pulled me into a hug. He patted my sore back a few times.
I moved to Mickey and held her tightly. This entire situation was not easy on any of us. She sacrificed everything just for me. I love and appreciate her so much. She never gave up on me.
When we pulled away I brought my finger to her purple eye and said, "you're eye..."
"I'm okay, really," she said.
If I could kiss it better, I would. It looked so painful and the bruise traveled from her eye down to her cheekbone. The white of her eye was filled with blood. I held her hand in mine, and tried not to think about how she obtained something so horrible.
I asked, "can I drive?"
Doug pulled out the keys and said, "it's your car."
I grabbed the keys from his hands and walked around to the drivers seat.
"I just had it washed," Doug said, "you owe me $5."
"I'm a little short on cash," I said and opened the door.
Mickey crawled in on the passengers side and Doug fixed the seat before getting into the front.
"You can owe me," he said and we swung into our seats.
I closed the door and turned on the engine. I revved it before reversing to get out of the jails parking lot. I put it into first gear, and the tires skid as I booked it out of there. I never want to come back here again.
Mickey's POV
Tom got his badge back from Fuller, but Booker didn't come back. Last I saw him, he had a heated discussion with Fuller and he stormed out of the chapel without talking to anyone.
After work, I went straight to Booker's apartment. I'm too nosy to not know what happened, and I felt like I was close enough with Booker to ask him without feeling like it wasn't any of my business. I knocked on the door, and I stuck my hand in my jacket pocket. I only had to wait a second before he opened the door wearing blue jeans, a black shirt, with his hair disheveled while he was eating a bowl of Captain Crunch cereal. Unemployment did not suit him.
"Mick. Wanna come in?" He seemed a little caught off guard to see me.
I walked in and asked, "what happened? You left without saying anything. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"Falsifying documents, obtaining the release of a prisoner under false pretenses, unauthorized access to police records, and procurement of an officer's weapon without requisite form 7-12A. I had to be reprimanded for my disregard for procedure," he revealed after he shut his door behind me. His face looked rather dull, and I could tell that nothing good came out of that meeting.
"That calls for a little more than just a slap on the wrist, huh?" I asked.
He nodded. "The board decided to reassign me from Jump Street to the police research library. They wanted me to report in uniform to the basement."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"It means I was supposed to be the microfilm clerk in the basement of Headquarters." He sniffed and said, "I love Jump Street, you know. But the library... that ain't being a cop."
"What did you tell him?" I asked.
"I quit. I turned in my gun, and my badge. I wouldn't do it."
That sounded horrible. We did exactly what Booker did, so how did Doug and I get away with it? We didn't even get a stern talking to about the situation. I said sympathetically, "I don't blame you."
"Don't worry, I told him that I acted alone. You and Penhall should be fine," he said and took a bite of his cereal.
"Thank you," I said. I felt better about my situation, but I felt really bad for Booker. He didn't deserve to get fired. He risked everything just for Tom, and it came at a steep price.
The news caught our attention. The news anchor said, "and today, plans were finalized between the city and the Crane organization to build a major sports complex to house the Outlaws. The 70,000 seat multipurpose stadium will come complete with luxury boxes and will be located in an area south of downtown. The $100 million dollar complex will not cost the taxpayers a single dime, according to developer Raymond Crane."
"How's the eye?" Booker asked, distracting me from the screen.
I turned back to Booker and shrugged. "It's fine. It's just a black eye, it'll go away eventually."
"Did Fuller ask about it?"
"Told him I broke up a cat-fight over on State Street," I chuckled. "He seemed to believe it."
Booker laughed too. "Good, good. The broads over there don't mess around."
"Hey, you know, we could never have been able to prove Tom's innocence without you. I appreciate everything you did so much. And I know he does too."
Booker looked back at me with a smile and he placed his bowl of cereal on his nearby counter. It was out of character but he suddenly was too humble to take the credit and he said, "it was really you guys who figured it out. I was the mere messenger. I'm glad I got to work closer with you, it was a treat. It really was."
"I wish it didn't end this way. Are you going to be okay?" I asked.
He nodded and said, "yeah. I'm going to be okay. Look, I still don't know what you see in Hanson, but just know that I'll always be here for you. Okay?"
"Okay," I smiled back at him. The way he said that made me think that he might know about me and Tom. He opened his arms up to me, and we gave each other a goodbye-hug. His bare skin was a little sticky from how hot his apartment was, which made my leather police jacket stick to him just slightly. At least he doesn't smell bad.
We said our final goodbyes, and I left. I think it's safe to admit that I will miss working with him. He's a good cop, a loyal friend, and a respectful man. Maybe we will be able to work together again in the future.
Thank you animejana for requesting!! 💞